Memory of the Night
by Phan-wrighter
Summary: Anita can't sleep without a bedtime story. However, she leanrs more about mer mother's past than anticipated. Darkness is revisited, and music is revived once more.


Disclaimer: I do not own any or all Phantom of the Opera characters, merchandise, or music. Trust me, if I did, I wouldn't be talking to you little people. I would be away, spending my millions on more sheet music.

Well, this is a one-shot. I worked hard on this one. Enjoy!

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"Please!" Anita begged, hanging off of her mother's sleeve. "Just one little story!"

Her mother rolled her eyes. "All right, Anita-rita," she said, swooping the little child up into the air. Anita let out a high-pitched squeal as she was swept away by her mother, brown hair waving behind both heads.

As Anita was swung into bed, she let out another high note- inherited voice- and said, far too brightly for eight at night, "Just one story, Mommy? Puh-leeeeeeeeze?"

"If you just calm down," her mother replied, giving her a wide smile that would blind the sun in its warmth. "I'll tell you a story I heard when I was young, shall I?"

"Oh, yes!" Anita said excitedly, looking up at her mother in happiness. "That would be wonderful!"

"Okay, then," Anita's mother said. "Here's one. It's more of a legend than a story." She looked at the wall for a moment while Anita looked expectantly up at her mother, and she began.

"In the Paris Opera house," she said, thinking back, "many years ago, there was a man who was called the Opera Ghost. He lived only in shadows, spoke only in song. He knew no life but that of hatred and abandonment, and all he saw was beauty; for you see, he had his eyes set on one particular girl named Christine."

"What did she look like?" Anita interrupted, eyes wide. "Was she pretty? How did the Opera Ghost know her? What was he like? How—"

"Only one question at a time, Anita-rita!" her mother laughed. "First: Christine. She was pretty enough, with soft skin and thick brown hair. The Opera Ghost- he was also called the Phantom of the Opera, or just the Phantom- thought she was very pretty. The Phantom knew her because he heard her singing one day. Her daddy had been a musician—"

"Just like Grandpa was!" Anita cried out.

"Right, just like Grandpa was," her mother smiled. "Well, her daddy had been a musician, and she used to sing along to his music. He knew this, and he wanted to give her lessons. He always hid from everyone, so no one knew what he looked like for a long time- not until he met Christine. When he did, he thought he could teach her to sing. I mean, sing better. So, guess what he started doing?"

"What?" Anita asked in a hushed whisper, entranced.

"Well," her mother went on, "since he built the Opera House—"

Interrupting again, Anita cried out, "He _built_ it?" Her eyes were round disks. "Wow!"

Her mother burst out in a high, tittering laugh. "Yes, he built it," she said. "And if you don't stop interrupting, I won't finish my story."

"Sorry," Anita whispered, hanging her head.

Her mother smiled and continued. "Since he built it, he made many little ways to go around the building, little passages that let him go places quickly. He lived under the building, but he went up to Christine's dressing room and began to give her lessons through her mirror. However, Christine had a boyfriend. His name was Raoul, and the Phantom was very jealous. You see, the Phantom had fallen in love with Christine."

Anita gave a little smile. "So," she said, raising an eyebrow slyly, "she _was_ pretty. Not as pretty as you, of course," she added, grinning.

Her mother laughed. "Well, maybe not, but the Phantom thought so. One night, the Phantom took her down to his lair, and there she saw what he really looked like. He had little golden eyes that shone, only in the dark. His face was covered up by a mask, but his face was yellowish and faded, like some dead person."

"Mo-o-o-om," Anita wailed. "Don't make it scary!"

"Sorry," her mother said softly. "Well, I'll skip over that bit. Suffice to say, he looked scary. However, Christine wasn't scared for long. When she got over how he looked, she could look at him without being too scared. However, she had to tell her boyfriend Raoul about it. When she did, the Phantom was behind her, although she didn't know it."

"Ooooooh," Anita whispered. "I bet he didn't like that."

"Nope," her mom said, shaking her head. "He was jealous. One night, when Christine was performing, he took her away. Raoul found a man who was called the Persian who said he would help Raoul find Christine. However, when they found her, she had a big decision to make. The Phantom had told her that she had a choice: either she could marry him, or she could say no, and everyone in the opera house above them would be blown up. Raoul and the Persian were just a room away, but they could hear everything that the Phantom and Christine were saying. They even heard when Christine chose to stay with the Phantom. However, their little room was flooded with water, and they would have died if it weren't for Christine. She begged the Phantom to save them, and because he loved her and would do anything for her, he did. As soon as they were better, he let them all out, including Christine. A week later, the Phantom died."

Anita stared at the floor, a frown on her face. After a moment, she asked a question she had been pondering for a while. "How well could he sing?" she asked softly.

Her mother sat further back on the bed and sighed. "Very well," she said, staring off into space. "He could sing like an angel. He was sometimes known as the Angel of Music, or the Angel of Darkness. People think that music should only be happy, but good music is always written in darkness." She looked down for a moment and noticed Anita's comprehensive looked. "You know what I mean?" she asked quizzically.

After a moment of thought, Anita answered. "Yes," she said, thoughtfully. "One night, while I was in bed, I felt something on the end of my bed. I didn't see anything, but I wasn't scared. It was comforting, so I didn't mind. Somewhere, I heard music- beautiful singing in every range imaginable. And I thought, for just a moment, that an angel was singing for me. The music sounded… sad. Like it missed something special. It sounded like, if it were sung in light, it wouldn't sound right. Do… do you think that's who it was? The Angel of Music?"

Her mother was speechless for a second, then she came to and answered her daughter. "Perhaps," she said warmly. "You see, although the Phantom died, he's still the Angel of Music. The Angel really exists. Whenever a musician needs comfort, he comes to them to make them happy again. If they need confidence, he comes to make them feel like they can sing, or play. You're lucky that he likes you. That's why you sing so well- because the Angel visited you." Anita's mother leaned down and kissed her daughter on the forehead. Just as she was about to say "goodnight," however, Anita stopped her with a request.

"Tell me more about the Angel, please?" she said, putting on an innocent look.

Her mother laughed. "No, Anita-rita," she said affectionately. "It's time for sleep."

"Please?" Anita whispered. "Just about the angel, not the Phantom or anything. I promise, no more story tonight after that. I'll go right to sleep!" She stuck out her lower lip.

Her mother lamented. How could she turn that down? "Okay," she said, looking around the room in a fake search for some object. "Tell me, have you seen a Sharpie? I need to write 'sucker' on my forehead."

Anita giggled, but pressed hard on her mother's arm. "The Angel?" she asked pleadingly.

Her mother thought for a moment, then launched into her story. "There are many types of angels," she began. "There are guardian angels, of course, and there are the ones in the holy choirs. Apart from those, there are many different kinds of angels. There is one main angel to each wonderful thing. There is a puppy angel and a kitty angel and even a birdie angel. There is an angel for colors and an angel just for glitter and sparkles and twinkling things like stars. A very important angel is the angel in charge of dreams, because he makes all the good dreams you have every night. Sometimes, of course, he messes up and you have a bad dream. Just tell him that you're scared, and he'll come down with a brand new dream, all ready to be dreamt and grinned at. The most important one of all, however, is the Angel of Music. He lives in a beautiful palace, all dark and black and red. It is elegant and covered in red roses. Music is always being played, and all great musicians live there after they die. Grandpa is up there right now, talking to Mozart. When you die, you'll get to meet the Angel himself."

Anita smiled at the thought. "Is he like the Phantom?" she asked.

"Yes," her mother said, giving her own little smile. "He is just as talented and kind. You see, the Phantom really was kind; he just never had anyone to love him. Now, as he's the Angel, he gives love and comfort to every musician who needs it. Every time you're down, just call softly for the Angel of Music, and he'll come to your aid. He's always listening. Whenever you have to sing or play your violin, just ask him to help you, and you'll play and sing better than you ever had."

Anita was looking wistfully off into space. "Have you ever met him?" she asked, her eyelids sinking lower over her eyes.

Her mother sighed. "Once, long ago," she said softly, and leaned over and gave Anita one last goodnight kiss. "No more questions tonight, Anita-rita," she whispered.

"Is… is the legend why…" Anita was cut off by a huge yawn. "Is it why you… you were named… Christine?" She rolled over on her pillow.

Her mother smiled as she stood in the doorway, about to go to bed herself. "Yes," she said quietly. "That is why." She softly closed the door to Anita's room and headed down the hallway.

She entered her own room and slowly began to change into her nightgown. So she had to change a few things about the story. Anita should know about the Phantom. Christine was rather proud of her little story.

It was lucky that little Anita was only five. This way, she wouldn't ask if her father had been named Raoul because of the "legend" as well, or if it was because the legend wasn't just a legend. Good thing Christine had left Raoul a time ago as well, or he'd have to answer a lot of questions. It would pain the stupid man to hear about the Phantom. He would hate that, but it would serve him right.

Christine crossed to the other side of the room and switched off the light. Dark. She liked that. Memories of the Opera House, of times gone by, swam in her head. She found that, sometimes, she even missed the man that she had seen as a murderer. The Phantom may have seemed evil, but he really was the man she had told her daughter about. Christine sighed, remembering how happy she had been when Raoul married her, how wonderful they had seemed together, how happy the marriage had made Mamma Valeria. However, Christine had soon found that he had no true love for music, the only thing that had taken her heart and could never let go.

She slowly drew back the covers and clambered into bed. Sometimes, she wished that she had just said goodbye to the Phantom, just once, before he… she couldn't think about it. She turned over under her quilt and thought sadly of the one man who had loved her, not for her looks, but for who she was, which was music.

It was cold, but she didn't mind. all those years ago, she grew used to the cold. The long nights haunting the Opera House, wandering the graveyards, searching for her father's grave. Somehow, it didn't matter right now. She was warm and happy. She looked up once before she drifted off into sleep. At the end of the bed was her vanity, and atop the vanity was a larger simple mirror. Deep inside it, she thought she saw two little yellow pinpricks in the middle of a white face. Below the white mask was a kind smile. Somewhere in the distance, a violin was playing The Resurrection of Lazarus. Someone was singing, and she thought she felt a soft touch on her cheek, a warm weight beside her.

But perhaps it was just a memory.

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Kinda creepy, huh? R&R!


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